Only the Brave
by clairon
Summary: Duty or desire? Fulfilment or forbearance? Which will Faramir choose? Warning adult themes are explored - if you don't like such things, please don't read!
1. Duty

**Disclaimer: **Not mine, borrowing from Prof etc. . .

**Author's Notes: **Clairon's bash at slash! I have read a lot of slash lately and decided to have a go myself. This did not turn out as I thought it would when I started – guess I'm just a repressed Brit after all. Adult themes are discussed here and relationships between men. If you don't like the thought of it please do not read. I do not wish to offend.

**Thanks:** Raksha and athelas63 for their support.

**Dedication:** This story is dedicated to Rory MacDonald and Calum MacDonald; two great bards of our time . . .

Part 1 now and Part 2 will arrive shortly when RL allows!

**Only the Brave**

**Part 1 – Duty**

"_**That which does not destroy us, makes us stronger."**_

**Nietzche**

_Forest of Ithilien_

_YEAR 82 (Fourth Age)_

Aragorn shivered. The dank day was slowly fading into a wet night. As if to underline his dreary mood a drip of rainwater made its way down the curve of his nose to drip lazily from its tip. He pulled his cloak and hood closer about his head. Glancing about he noted that, even in foul weather such as this, when the grey mists of Ithilien hung over the trees and the lazy autumn rain drizzled through the fading green leaves, this country was still beautiful.

Behind him he heard one of his soldiers gasp in awe. On any day save this one the King knew he too would not fail to be amazed by the majestic splendour of the newly rebuilt Minas Ithil which rose out of the trees before him like a vision of perfection.

On any day save this one. . . on this day the acknowledgement of what had been created in this place was too painful for the King, for he remembered how this land had been after the war and he well knew the energy and emotion that had been discharged into this place to transform it. On this day the suffering behind the creation of such grandeur weighed heavily on the King's guilty heart.

Aragorn sighed deeply. He had received the dreaded summons earlier that morning and his heart had quaked. Bidding his Queen a hasty farewell, she had watched with moist eyes as he left Minas Tirith immediately with only a small guard. They had pushed their horses hard throughout the ride and now the welcoming sight of the city of the moon greeted them.

Throughout the journey memories had thundered through Aragorn's mind, memories that had focused on the reason why he made this reckless ride. . . Lord Faramir.

Faramir, his Steward; the man who had not only had the vision to dream of the city before him but also the determination to make his aspiration reality. A man with precious little happiness in his own life, yet who had found the strength to rise above his suffering and build something as truly beautiful as Minas Ithil. Aragorn found himself pondering, not for the first time, the quality of his Steward.

But things had not always been thus. As he rode onwards towards the shimmering gates of the city, Aragorn contemplated all those years past. At the very beginning of his reign, Aragorn had worried that his choice of Steward had been suspect. He had agonised that the young man whose eyes were deep with bottomless sorrow would ever fulfil the expectations he held. Although Faramir had always been attentive and committed there was something disconcerting about him. Concern soon turned to fascination as Aragorn watched the new Steward struggle both with his own personal despair and his newly appointed role. Aragorn had not been able to find fault in the Steward's performance; Faramir had a quick and eager mind, quickly gauging his new responsibilities and throwing himself into his work. It had taken the new King some time to realise the source of his continuing concern was not related to Faramir's role. Instead he slowly came to realise that it was something in the young man's stare, something in the way those eyes found his, challenging and suggestive and in the way that, once their eyes met the Steward would hold the stare briefly before looking away shyly. Aragorn had dwelt long enough in the world of Men to ascertain the depths of Faramir's desire.

As he made his way through the wet Ithilien forest, Aragorn remembered speaking to Gandalf of his concerns for the young Steward. Gandalf had smiled grimly and said, "Faramir is the most resolute Man I have known in a long time. Do not mistake the strategy he uses to overcome personal turmoil for that of submission; he will forsake his duty for naught. Denethor taught him that, if little else. Faramir's demons are many but they make him strong. Gondor has ever been his mistress and ever will be – he has spent his lifetime suffering is silence for her. He has built his inner walls with such durability to ensure it remains that way."

Gandalf had hesitated then, his own penetrating stare judging the King. They had been friends for many years and the wise old wizard knowing of the emotions that played within Aragorn sensed the attraction beginning to flicker. "I see that although your words do not ask it, there is more you wish to know, Aragorn. You wish to know of Faramir's life, of his loves and passions. You have always been attracted by the neediness of another and you sense the scent of Faramir's want is strong. But I caution you; you are a king now and your responsibilities are many. And if that simple fact does not move you, muse on this; Faramir has suffered much; he suffers still behind his walls. Imagine a dam; with only but a small crack, very quickly the water that swirls behind it will bring the whole edifice crashing down. The deep currents of passion in Faramir's soul are thus controlled. Think very carefully before you proceed, for if you allow him even the smallest breach in the barrage of his conscience you risk all."

The King had noted the warning of the wizard but had still been unable to quell the fascination for the Steward he had saved from death. Mindful of the risk, however, he contented himself with supporting Faramir as best he could while watching the young man from afar and trying to learn of his past as subtly as possible.

The present pulled Aragorn from his thoughts as his horse's hooves clattered up the cobbles of the new city. Through the gate they went and through the now deserted market place, up to the administrative centre of the city and onwards. Aragorn pulled his horse to a halt as Faramir's son, Elboron, rushed from the comfort of his father's dwelling out into the drizzle.

"How fares he?" Aragorn asked as he slid from the saddle.

"He lingers for only one reason, my King," Elboron said, reaching out to hold the horse's bridle. "You have yet to give him permission to leave." The words were said with no trace of bitterness by the son who had inherited so many of his father's characteristics, although thankfully not all. To Elboron it was a simple fact; his father's duty was not yet done, therefore Faramir would not yet depart.

Aragorn, unwilling to meet the younger man's eye, nodded towards the building. "Take me to him," he ordered.

Elboron bowed slightly. "Of course, Sire," he said. "I will arrange for refreshment to be served for you."

"For my men," Aragorn said. "For me I wish to see my Steward now."

As they walked briskly through the house, Aragorn's mind again returned to Faramir. It was over eighty years since he had first met his Steward but he remembered the intimacy of the moment when he had recalled Faramir from his fevered state in the Houses of Healing as if it had happened but minutes before.

The Numenorean blood which ran so strongly in their veins had kept both men strong when others of their age had been confined to their dotage. As Elboron explained the circumstances of what had befallen Faramir, Aragorn came to see that it was because of his good health that Faramir now ailed. The Steward still rode every morning and the day before he had taken out his Rohan steed as was his habit. Some miles into the woods of Ithilien, the skittish horse had lost a shoe, thrown its rider and Faramir had landed heavily.

As they reached the door to Faramir's room, Elboron hesitated in his tale. He turned to regard his King. "The damage was done when he fell, Sire," he said. "Luckily Tobir was with him and able to bring him home. If he had ridden alone, I know not when we may have found him. His body is broken beyond repair but he lingers for you."

Aragorn took a deep breath and nodded as the son of the Steward fought to retain his composure.

"There is much internal damage . . . Tobir stays with him . . . I have sent word to my sisters . . . but he asks for only you . . ."

There was a catch in Elboron's voice as he stopped, no longer a young man himself, he gulped in air. Aragorn had been so consumed by his own pain that he had forgotten that this man, who tried so hard to keep his control and yet crumbled before him, was speaking of his own father. Aragorn moved to embrace him.

"Bron," Aragorn whispered softly. "You are doing all you can."

Elboron sighed sadly. "It is not enough. I do not want to lose him, Sire. I cannot face a world denied of his light."

Aragorn squeezed the man to him affectionately. There was the trace of closeness, an intimacy shared once and now almost forgotten. The lingering strength of the memory of that long ago touch was enough to comfort both men.

"You are a Hurin," Aragorn said, his voice soft with sympathy. "You will endure."

Elboron gulped once more but his shuddering ceased and he quietened at his King's touch.

The room was dark but the familiar scent of athelas assailed Aragorn's senses as he moved slowly towards the bed. Sitting beside it was a handsome young man who clutched the hand of the figure who lay there.

As Aragorn moved forward the man's head turned and bright eyes looked up catching the King in the intensity of their grey stare.

"Peace, Tobir," Aragorn murmured resting a comforting hand on the broad shoulders. "I would speak with my Steward," he continued.

Tobir opened his mouth to respond but a long sigh from the bed stopped him. They both turned to see cobalt blue eyes regarding them unflinchingly.

"You came," Faramir breathed, his voice hoarse and weak.

Aragorn smiled, "Of course," he said as he moved forwards. "I promised you a long time ago that I would."

Tobir hesitated a moment but then surrendered his place.

From the doorway Elboron said, "Come Tobir, you need to eat a little. Give the old boys time to speak."

The Steward's son placed an arm around the younger man's shoulders as he retreated to the door. It closed with a gentle click.

"You caused much gossip the first time you brought Tobir to court," Aragorn said his eyes twinkling with mischief as he made himself comfortable on the seat so recently vacated by the beautiful young man. "He is younger than your grandchildren!"

Faramir let out a noise which could have been a lecherous chuckle. "A man can live alone for only a finite time. Sooner or later we all succumb to our primitive urges, Sire," he said. His voice though strained was surprisingly strong. "Does he remind you of any one?"

Aragorn snorted. "Black hair, grey eyes, Ranger from the north. . . I don't think so," he teased.

Faramir sighed. "I would hate to be remembered as lacking discretion," he replied echoing Aragorn's mischief.

The King smiled warmly. "My Faramir," he whispered. "How different things could have been."

Faramir shook his head; his strength seemed to have rallied a little. "You honour me too highly, Sire," he responded. "The untouched fruit is always the most alluring since the promise of its sweetness is not tainted by the tasting."

Aragorn reached out and clasped the pale hand that had lain lifelessly on the blanket since Tobir had released it. The hand was cold and yet the long fingers held an elegance that even the wrinkling of time could not wither. This was the hand of an archer. Aragorn gazed at it wistfully and ran his own fingers along each digit gently.

"Nothing on this earth could be sweeter," he muttered as, not for the first time, he found himself wondering what it would be like to be lovingly caressed by such a hand.

"You will never know," Faramir said sadly as he read his King's thoughts in that uncanny way of his. "I cannot move it, nor the rest of my body. Eowyn has her revenge at last. I should never have ridden another Rohan mare."

"Eowyn would wish you no harm, Faramir," Aragorn heard himself retort as he noted the uncharacteristic acrimony in the other's words, he continued, "So we can talk frankly of what is important? You are finally letting down your walls."

"I tried so hard to be everything Eowyn wanted and it took a long time for me to truly understand that she wanted nothing I could be." Faramir looked away from his King's eyes for the first time since his liege had entered the room. Aragorn felt an instant cold which was extenuated by the Steward's tone as Faramir muttered, "Maybe my walls served no purpose."

"They helped you to achieve all you have," Aragorn replied.

"They helped me ignore the fact that my marriage was a disaster!"

"It served its purpose," Aragorn ventured. "It gave you Elboron and the girls."

"Aye," Faramir's voice was suddenly flat. "But they were the only happiness. Poor Eowyn, I should have let her go back to Edoras but I thought it was our duty to both Gondor and Rohan. I made it harder for her than I should have."

Aragorn reached up and laid his hand on Faramir's forehead. He was hot, his skin was pale as aged parchment and just as fragile. The Steward's voice was becoming quieter as if his energy was dissipating once more. With a quiver of his heart, Aragorn felt the fear then Elboron had voiced earlier. Selfishly he desperately wanted to keep Faramir beside him forever. Fighting back the anguish he tried to stay calm.

"This serves no purpose, Faramir," he said gently. "It cannot be changed. You are weak, you must rest. How do you feel?"

"I feel nothing," Faramir responded dully. "Ironic is it not that one as famed for his control as I, should end like this? I am unable to relieve myself without aid, let alone wash. Thankfully I will not last long thus but this punishment is hard enough to bear."

"Punishment?" Aragorn repeated. "You, of all men I know deserve no punishment."

Faramir's eyes came back to his then, staring with a questioning intensity. "To have desired the deed is as bad as doing it," he said softly.

"If the deed to which you refer is what I think it is then it would take my consent as well as your own," Aragorn said. "And I would deserve greater punishment than you for, but for your restraint, I would have done it."

"Do you know Eowyn believed that my secret love was for Boromir. She often asked me how she could compete with a ghost." Faramir looked away, his eyes moistening. "I never told her the truth."

"What truth? That you felt attracted to your King?" Aragorn asked. "For that is all you are guilty of, Faramir. You never once acted on your feelings, never allowed yourself the pleasure as others have." He gently stroked an unruly strand of grey hair which hung into Faramir's eyes. Into his mind came the vision of Faramir as he had last seen him; unbowed and tall at Council in the White City just a few weeks before, dressed in blue formal robes that matched his eyes – Tobir's doing no doubt for the Steward never took much interest in his own appearance – he had been a distinguished figure, made more attractive by the fact that youth and innocence had been replaced by experience and confidence. At that moment Aragorn had felt the familiar clenching of his loins; he had still lusted after his Steward. "The pleasure I would have willingly given you," he finished, mouth dry with the memory.

Faramir gulped hard and Aragorn saw the vulnerability flash in his eye. He quivered at the memory of the same lapse of control that had revealed the emotion simmering behind Faramir's inner walls all those years before. . . . .

Flashback 

_Minas Tirith_

_YEAR 1 (Fourth Age)_

It had been a long, tedious Council and Aragorn found his gaze wondering to the windows of the chamber. Outside the day had dwindled into night and still the useless bags of wind he had inherited as his councillors spouted. He fought to contain the sigh of boredom that tried to escape from his lips. Surely there were better things a King should do then endure such as this!

It was said that Denethor had ruled these men with an iron hand. It was not difficult to see why for Aragorn idly wondered if they possessed a spine between them!

As if to challenge his thought a raised voice pulled his attention back to the Council table. A minor lord was standing, gesticulating wildly, his face scarlet with fury as a barrage of abuse tumbled from his mouth. Backbone at last? Aragorn mused or more likely a painful attack of wind!

However he found his attention caught by the reaction of the subject of the abuse. Faramir, the young Lord Steward, sat in his chair, taut as a bow string, absorbing the insults. Now this is interesting, Aragorn thought, for his fascination for the young man had done naught but grow the more he learned of his past.

Faramir was talking now, his words measured and emotionless, directing the blustering lord back to the facts. His voice, although quiet, evidenced command and respect. Aragorn noted the performance with relish; every time the lord argued his voice and temper rising frenziedly higher, Faramir cut him down, not with words of anger or spite but with calculation and fact. The King remembered that although Faramir appeared a young man he had a pedigree of command; the cub of Denethor, he had spent many years as the Captain of the elite Ithilien Rangers, and was no stranger to conflict and surviving the experience. Still it was a powerful exhibition of control that Aragorn allowed to continue longer than he should purely because he enjoyed the performance of his Steward. He saw now the reason why Gandalf rated this man and he felt mesmerised by him. The King's mouth went dry, his palms sweaty and his stomach knotted – he knew the signs well enough; he wanted this man!

Finally the minor lord stopped shouting, eyes wide with fury he turned to regard his King for support. Aragorn realised that all eyes had focused on him in the suddenly silent and oppressive room. The Steward too looked at his King but Aragorn read in his look so much more than just a hope of mediation on the problem.

Aragorn snorted softly. "Gentleman," he began. "It has been a long session and I pray you let us break now. We will reconvene tomorrow morning. But before you leave I must re-iterate my Steward's words; he speaks for me in all things."

It was worth the muttering from the agitated lord to feel the fleeting flash of gratitude in Faramir's eyes. Beyond the warmth was more and, as their eyes met, Aragorn read the simmering emotion, revealed as the Steward's control momentarily lapsed.

He signalled Faramir to wait, which he did patiently as the others left the room.

A tingle of excitement ran through every sinew of the King's body. He felt suddenly so much more alive than he had for a long time. The monotony of the Kingship had trapped him in this City for too long. He needed to feel free and if he could not feel the wind in his hair, what better than the fingers of a new lover?

Aragorn's eyes went automatically to his Steward's slim, elegant fingers as they fastened the satchel before him. Again, his throat was dry as the heat of longing rumbled through him. Hanging on tenuously to his control Aragorn forced himself to sit calmly, displaying nothing of his emotion.

"Faramir," he said finally, working on his voice to keep it even.

Faramir's head lifted and his eyes, promising rapture, fixed on his King. Aragorn's stomach turned over. "Is all well?"

Faramir nodded. "Yes, my King," he responded in such a tight lipped manner that Aragorn knew, even if it was not, he would not bother to disclose the issue to his King.

Aragorn sighed. How to approach this? Was he reading the signs wrongly? Faramir's eyes had betrayed him but his want was buried so deep. Did he even realise the message he was sending to his King? And if he did not, or if Aragorn was reading it wrongly, what damage would such disclosure have on their still developing alliance? Gandalf's warning was still strong in Aragorn's mind but stronger still was the wanting that burned into his conscience, pushing all diffidence away.

Aragorn stared at his Steward, trying to find some clue in the way the younger man held himself. There was none; for Faramir had closed himself once more. He sat now tense and ready, his handsome face waiting under an impassive mask. Again, Aragorn reminded himself he was no innocent, this son of Denethor. Faramir had spent all of his young adulthood as a soldier, more than that he had been commander of a desperate unit, operating behind enemy lines under supreme strain. He must be very aware of the passions that ruled men. How Aragorn wished that his delicate enquiries had found some evidence that such passion burned within Faramir too; some fact that he could use to his advantage now. But although all reports of the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers had revealed his unwavering concern for his men, not one had shown he had ever taken that concern to a more physical level. Faramir, it seemed was a model and most pure leader of men.

And yet the signs were there! The argument raged within Aragorn. Was he alone in seeing the dark, repressed desires that swirled within his Steward deeper than the black waters of the Anduin? No, he knew he was not, and Gandalf had hinted as much when they spoke.

Aragorn had never dallied this long over an approach. It was his way to see what he wanted and take it and he was never denied. But something caused him to hesitate over this young man before him, even though the desire to reach out to him was building uncontrollably within.

"Faramir," he began again, suddenly seeing a way into the discussion. "Know you of the old tradition of bondsmen?"

Faramir nodded uncertainly. "Indeed, my King," he said.

Of course he did! Aragorn knew well that Faramir was a scholar but for the War of the Ring and his undeniable duty to Gondor, he would have spent his entire life cloistered in the Minas Tirith libraries learning the history of this and every other realm.

"What think you of it?" Aragorn asked, trying to keep his question neutral.

Faramir shifted on his seat. Was that the soft colour of embarrassment shading his cheek or just a trick of the light? Whatever its source Aragorn found it made the man before him even more captivating.

"It served a function," Faramir responded non-committedly, his eyes dropping to the table and his fingers fiddling with the strap of his document bag.

"Would it surprise you to know that amongst the Dunedain, I have my own bondsmen?" Aragorn said it in a soft voice. He leaned forward to catch every delicious moment of Faramir's reaction.

The younger man gulped as his eyes widened. He stopped fidgeting and sat completely still for a whole heart beat. His voice, when it came, was almost normal but not quite. "Yes," he said. "It would."

Faramir's intense eyes searched those of the King to see if there was any trace of irony there. Aragorn worked hard at keeping his expression open and honest while his whole being quaked at the beautiful creature before him.

"It is a tradition that I have found most beneficial but also most pleasurable," Aragorn said. He reached across the table and placed his hands on Faramir's. "It would please me if you would consider such a step."

"Me?" Faramir could no longer control his voice. His eyes flashed as he looked down at his hands enveloped by those of his King and his head dropped forward onto his chest.

Curses flew through Aragorn's mind. This was not the reaction he had planned and definitely not the one he had wanted. Eru take these southern men, and the devastating confines of Gondorian society! Gandalf had warned him and yet, as ever he had listened to his loins! Now he had damaged the fragile, vulnerable man before him.

Faramir let out one stifled groan. But as he lifted his head, Aragorn was amazed to see the impassive mask had returned to cover his features. The Steward gently pulled away his hands and stood.

"My Lord," Faramir began with great dignity. "You do me great honour but alas I am not worthy of such treatment."

Lust overtook Aragorn then as he beheld this contrite, humble figure before him. He bounded around the table, took Faramir in his arms and embraced him tightly.

"Faramir, never say it!" he whispered. "You are more worthy than all others. It would be so much less than you deserve!"

Faramir shivered at his touch and thrust his head into his King's chest as if searching for long sought affection there. Aragorn closed his eyes, ran his hand through Faramir's hair and breathed in the scent of sweet honey. Pulling the hot body more closely to him, he was eager to quench the passion that now roared through his veins.

At such an exposed moment he was completely unprepared for the vision that lurched into his head, dazzlingly vivid in its force. Aragorn saw Faramir before him, naked and in chains at his feet. But this was no dungeon; instead Aragorn recognised his own bed chamber. And Faramir was smiling, his body slippery with sweat and other bodily juices, his tongue running wantonly across his reddened lips and his manacled arms raised pleading towards his King. But it was the eyes that held Aragorn's attention, no longer were they bright with intelligence; instead they were wild, and marked by a complete lack of control. Here was a creature that at once attracted and repelled Aragorn with its lust and shamelessness. He knew instantly that this Faramir would do _anything _to please his King. There were no walls anymore; his barriers had completely collapsed. And Aragorn saw the warning; here was the thing that Faramir would become. Gandalf's words came back to him once more.

And yet, Aragorn also knew that he would take such a future, part of him would even relish it, for a decadent and debauched creature such as this was the thing of his most wild dreams. But even as the thought blossomed in his mind, he felt the shivering body before him disengage and move away. The fiery heat within him went out and the vision shattered like glass.

Aragorn opened his eyes to see Faramir standing before him, slightly breathless and his hair dishevelled. Questions thundered through Aragorn just as his passion had done seconds earlier. Had Faramir seen what he had? Had they shared the vision of the future? And if he had, would Faramir agree that the price of pleasure was worth paying? But such questions, like the passions before, Aragorn knew, would likely remain unanswered.

Faramir fell to his knees before him. His head bowed. "I thank you, my King," his voice halting but growing in strength as he continued. "You have ever shown me support when I am not worthy. I cannot, however, accept your kind honour. If you feel I am therefore compromised in my position, I shall, of course, resign the Stewardship. The decision I yours."

Aragorn stepped forward and ignoring Faramir's flinch, gathered him back up into his embrace. "Faramir, I think no less of you that you should say no. I would not force anything on you."

Faramir nodded, his head slowly coming up to reveal the pain in his eyes.

Aragorn understood its source instantly. "Neither will I mention this day again. But you in turn must agree that you will come to me whenever you feel the need or you must call me to you. For I will always be there for you."

Faramir gulped. "Thank you, Sire," he said. "I mean you no dishonour; the fault is mine and no others. And I do swear that one day I will explain why it can never be between us how you desire it."

Aragorn sighed. "So be it," he said. He bent forward once more and planted a long kiss on lips that tasted sweeter than wine. "The first and the last," he muttered softly. "Until you bid me otherwise, Faramir."

Faramir accepted the kiss but not the enquiring tongue that tried to enter his mouth. He pulled away and bowed quickly.

"Thank you, Sire," he muttered as he left the room speedily.

End of flashback 

_Minas Ithil_

_YEAR 82 (Fourth Age)_

Aragorn leaned forward over the bed and planted a shameless kiss on Faramir's lips. This time his Steward did not deny him, instead he allowed the King's tongue entrance. It ravished around Faramir's mouth brutally as if to satisfy all the years of frustration.

Grudgingly as he realised Faramir could no longer respond to his touch, Aragorn pulled away finally. "Oh Faramir," he said softly. "What have we missed?

"We have missed nothing, my King," Faramir replied firmly. "It is only now that my body is devoid of reaction that I am safe enough to let you in. I could never have done it if it were not so."

"One thing I must know Faramir," Aragorn said. "That day all those years ago, did you share the vision?"

Faramir's smile had the quality of another world. "Aye," he said dreamily. "I shared that with you, at least."

Aragorn's eyes widened. "Then how did you find the strength to turn from it?"

TBC


	2. Disclosure

**Disclaimer: **Not mine, borrowing from Prof etc. . .

**Thanks: **as ever to Raksha that Demon and athelas63

**Author's Notes**: Clairon's bash at slash!

Thanks for all the reviews and kind words. The vision of Faramir naked, in chains seems to have stimulated much debate . . . I wonder why? Anyway here is the final part of this story; where the repressed Brit in me really comes to the fore!

Again, adult themes are discussed here and relationships between men. If you don't like the thought of it please do not read. I do not wish to offend.

Part 2 – Disclosure 

"_**Not to love is not to live,**_

_**Not to live is to feel no pain,**_

_**Unlock this heart of mine,**_

_**Show me the ways of mystery,**_

_**In the places where they say,**_

_**Only the brave can walk alone."**_

**R MacDonald and C MacDonald**

_Minas Ithil_

_YEAR 82 (Fourth Age)_

"Then how did you find the strength to turn from it, Faramir?"

"Strength?" Faramir whispered bleakly. "It was never that. Fear and guilt maybe . . ."

Aragorn glanced out of the window. All trace of the day had left the sky. He could see only the inhospitable blackness of the night. It was bleak and unwelcoming, matching the King's mood as he sensed the doom ahead.

"I have only ever really loved three people in my life before Tobir," Faramir said softly.

"Hush, Faramir," Aragorn fussed, trying to allay the dread he felt. "You have not the strength for this now. Rest awhile."

But the Steward shook his head. "My strength is left now only for confession."

Aragorn gripped his friend's hand more tightly. "Still you do not have to do this."

Faramir's eyes were bright in the lamplight. "But I do, Sire," he said. "I promised I would tell you and I owe you this now; for it is all I can give you."

"You have given enough all ready," Aragorn argued.

"Please." Faramir's eyes widened.

The sense of the past was so strong that Aragorn found himself once more contemplating the events of long ago. After his vision and experience with Faramir, Aragorn had described it all to Arwen, as he did with all matters of the heart. His wife had postulated that Faramir had suffered so much and his wounds were still raw; he may need time to come to terms with his feelings. She too had sensed the passions deep within the troubled young man and she did not believe that any mortal could contain such emotion for long. Aragorn had agreed with this assessment and waited patiently for a sign that Faramir's poise and self control was threatening to break.

The years past and both men became most engaged with governing the Kingdom. Aragorn however did not neglect his watch over the Steward and he slowly began to see that the conclusion he desired would never be achieved.

Faramir used all of his zeal in the rebuilding of Minas Tirith and Osgiliath and later still, the even greater work of Minas Ithil. There was nothing left for his personal desires – he gave of himself completely and utterly. But that did not mean he was happy; he staggered through a loveless marriage and beget the heir to the Stewardship as was his duty. But he rarely spent time with his wife, when he did so it was for the benefit of his children. His life was spent instead between the great cities of Gondor. And Aragorn grieved, that two people that he cared deeply for, could not find the happiness in each other that they deserved. After Eowyn's death Faramir never returned to the home they should have shared in Emyn Arnen. Instead he moved into apartments in Minas Ithil, leaving the beautiful mansion for Elboron and his family. The Steward considered it no great loss and hoped his son could find the pleasure there that had eluded him.

Throughout his life Lord Faramir was loved generously by the people but Aragorn believed such remote esteem was never enough to fulfil his Steward's personal want. Faramir lived hidden behind his emotional walls and never acknowledged his need. Quite simply the youngest son of Denethor sacrificed his own happiness for the greater good of Gondor.

Now, after all those years of waiting, Aragorn knew that Faramir needed to explain his selfless choice to his King. For, though he had fulfilled his duty to Gondor, Aragorn believed that Faramir still suffered pangs of guilt that he had refused his King all those years before.

Pulling himself back to this darkened room, his hand still holding Faramir's lifeless one before him, Aragorn sensed the weight of the past as an oppressive presence on the air. Shadows of old hurt and repressed passion lingered in the gloom and seemed to threaten to step forth and smother them both. There was danger here. Aragorn did not wish to hear what Faramir would disclose, for he knew it would be drenched in pain. Still, he realised he had neither the strength nor the will to deny his Steward his final request. He nodded, fighting back the warning fear that shivered deep in his heart and said only, "Stop when you feel tired."

Faramir closed his beseeching eyes then and pushed his head back into the soft pillows. He sighed deeply. "Three there have been; Boromir was first, whom I loved as my blessed brother; he was the golden idol of my youth and the very man I wished to be. And you my King, whom I love in a far more base though in the end no less chaste way. I burn for you, still. But there was another, one who I allowed to touch me as no other ever has. Long ago when the world was so very different . . ." His voice took on a dream like quality as he carried on.

"I had just passed out of the Academy and I thought that at last I had done something to make my father proud. But he reacted as coldly to me as he ever had. Boromir was away so, yet again, I had no one to witness my success. Achievements only matter when you can share them. I went to the passing out party. I should not have gone but I was so achingly lonely that it was a physical pain deep inside me. I stood alone, on the edge of the gathering, as ever, and then I noticed him staring at me . . .Rion. He was in the same year as me but we were not friends, acquaintances but not friends. I had no friends. It is in the stare, is it not, Aragorn? That is how you know each other?"

Aragorn smiled wistfully as those bottomless blue eyes opened again to blaze at him. "Yes, Faramir that is how we know."

"No one had ever looked at me in that way before. I felt dangerously exposed but also somehow elated. As if all my life I had missed something that now was blindingly obvious. The empty pain within me changed to a deep longing that I needed fulfilled. Neither women nor men had interested me up until that point. I had just assumed I would marry whomever my father told me and produce heirs to the glory of Gondor. But when Rion looked at me I knew that such a future would never make me happy nor would it fill the dark gapping hole inside me. "

"Rion left the gathering, casting a look over his shoulder, spearing me with that stare and I followed him through the gardens to some breathless point. He knelt before me and . . ." Faramir's eyes were closed again his face lost in the memory of the moment. "I could not believe that one man could bring another such pleasure. I had read of it in books of course but that did not prepare me. In my foolishness and youth I likened the wave building inside me to that which crashed over Numenor which I had often suffered in my dreams. But this was no nightmare; 'twas a lovely wave that brought only pleasure to my tormented existence. Rion was touching and licking in places so intimate and my legs were giving way. I felt sure I would lose myself forever in the wondrous sensation . . ."

Faramir stopped and drew in a long ragged breath. He began to cough, gruff aching sounds which seemed to rattle through his numb, useless body. Aragorn fumbled for the handkerchief in the pouch on his belt. He held it to Faramir's mouth and was not surprised to see its bleached whiteness coloured by the violent blood that Faramir choked up. Moving his position from the stool at the bed side, Aragorn lowered himself on to the bed beside his Steward. He wrapped his arm around Faramir's shuddering shoulders and held him close, waiting for the spasm to pass.

It took long moments before Faramir had regained the breath to continue but when he did so he took up his story immediately, his voice raw. "He seduced me, physically of course but emotionally also. I was eighteen years old and had never been touched; never even realised that such passion could exist. I do believe it did not matter that he was a man, what was important to me was that Rion treated me with respect, with love. In his arms I was not the Steward's second son, nor Boromir's little brother, nor a too serious newly promoted lieutenant, I simply was. He told me I was special, that I was beautiful and valuable; such concepts had never been uttered to me before. He said I deserved to be loved. . ."

Faramir stopped talking, his eyes focused on the middle distance.

"What happened, Faramir?" Aragorn probed sympathetically after a few moments of pause.

"I was bedazzled by his attention, awed by him. The night before he was due to leave for his first posting we had dinner together and afterward we were to . . ." He hesitated and swallowed hard before continuing. "For we had only boyishly fumbled previously and he said he would be gentle. He brought some sweet scented oil from Rhun that he said was all the fashion in the barracks. And I was so scared and yet so excited. My head told me it was wrong but my bruised heart could not forego the tenderness it had been promised. He rented a room down on the third circle. It was an enjoyable night and then we went through to the bed and . . ."

Faramir stopped and coughed once more, Aragorn gently wiping away the blood again. After the seizure stilled Faramir's eyes lifted to rest on Aragorn who patiently waited, displaying none of the emotion that the tragic story brought him.

"To spare you the sordid detail; Rion took me to bed." Faramir's chuckle was hard as iron. "He played me like a musical instrument, it was glorious. Imagine my surprise as I opened my eyes at the point of ecstasy and beheld my father. The Lord Denethor regarded his abnormal son with that cold loveless look he saved particularly for me. He had an uncanny ability even then to know everything that went on in his City."

"And?"

"He quite put me off my stride, so to speak," Faramir snorted with customary understatement which did not quite manage to cover the lingering hurt that had scarred him and tainted his life ever since.

Aragorn closed his eyes as the awful scene played across his mind. For a person as gentle as Faramir to be revealed in such a way and by his own father; it beggared belief! The King could tell from the pained expression on Faramir's face that this was not the end of his brutal tale; this was not the final disclosure. Aragorn shifted position and belatedly reached out to pick up the glass of water from the side of the bed. Gently he eased Faramir's head forward, holding the glass to his Steward's lips. Faramir drank deeply.

"You do not have to tell me more," Aragorn said, replacing the glass. He was shocked by the story but not surprised, his own research had made him suspect that some incident involving his father had caused Faramir to build his inner walls high and retreat behind them.

Faramir licked his lips. "He looked at me for what seemed like a lifetime with eyes frozen so cold they extinguished all passion, all pleasure," he continued, as if he had not heard his King. "And then he simply turned on his heel and left. The next day he gave me a lecture on unacceptable behaviour and how I must quell my aberrant instincts for the good of Gondor. And I, little fool that I was, congratulated myself that I had escaped a terrible situation relatively lightly. I even began to believe that he may have forgiven me because he understood how incredibly lonely I was." The chill, metallic chuckle again. "But I had misjudged father very badly. I never could see into his heart, not in the way I could other men."

"I should have known he would make sure I learned the lesson. And that the delay of almost a month would make his lethal blow all the more effective."

Faramir paused as if steeling himself for one last effort. "He asked me to attend Council at his side one morning, something he never had done in the past; it was only much later when I became Captain of the Rangers that he let me attend by right. I was awed and amazed that he gave me the honour. There had been much fighting on the eastern banks of the Anduin for two weeks previously. My father said to honour the dead I should read out the names of the noble men of Gondor who had fallen. I had never attended Council before let alone been given leave to speak, and I thought he gave me a weighty honour, thus I began the roll with as strong a voice as I could. I was halfway through the list when my eyes ran on to the next name. . ."

The violent coughing started again and Aragorn's fear for his Steward increased as his body quaked in rasping convulsions. There was nothing the helpless King could do however, except hold Faramir until the fit subsided. Aragorn suspected that this seizure had been brought on by the raw tension Faramir still remembered from all those years before. When Faramir recovered enough to continue in a rapidly weakening voice, his words proved the King's suspicions.

"My stomach tightened, my legs went weak and my voice died in my throat. All else in the room faded; there was suddenly only my father's eye on me, cool and calculating, waiting for me to fail, to show my weakness. I fought for my composure, I screwed my courage tightly and I forced all emotion away. Something in me shrivelled and died that day, something that I have missed for the rest of my life. I have no doubt my father killed it. But I said Rion, my lover's name, as bravely and as proudly as I could, staring challengingly into my father's eyes. And though the names swam before me I read them all, valiant men of Gondor who deserved more than to have their deaths used in such a contemptible way. At the end there was no acknowledgement from my father he simply moved on to the next item on the agenda and left me to sit through the rest of the Council. There is no place more lonely in the whole of Middle Earth that day; he knew that I had understood his message."

Aragorn was overcome with a wave of compassion. He encircled Faramir in a protective hug, squeezing him tightly. "I am so sorry," he whispered.

"My father's methods were always effective even if sometimes they lacked sensitivity." Faramir mused, resting his head on the King's shoulder. "I wanted you to understand that there has been no strength in my forbearance over the years. It is simply that I learnt as a child what was expected of me and of what I should expect in return. I learnt not to touch, not to expose another to such hurt to satisfy my own selfish desires, for I was of no consequence. My only worth was what I could be for Gondor." He sighed, "But in my dreams you were there. Before I met you I dreamt of the coming of the King and since you saved me, I . . ." Faramir's voice had faded to a whisper and it disappeared completely. He gulped, eyes wide with passionate honesty as he disclosed, "I have loved you always."

As he spoke a single tear rolled out of the corner of his eye and meandered down his pallid cheek. Awed Aragorn reached out and blocked its path with his finger.

"This is the first time I have ever seen you cry, Faramir," he said.

Faramir sniffed and managed a weak smile. "A sign of weakness," he replied ruefully.

"Never that; a sign of the depth of your love. If I could keep this tear close to my heart forever I would." Aragorn brought his fingers to his lips. "Instead I will taste its wonder."

Faramir snorted. "Do you understand now why I said no to you all those years ago even as my soul screamed yes?"

Words failed Aragorn at that point, intense emotions rolled within him; anger, sadness, regret and disbelief. How could Denethor have treated his own son with such cruelty and how had Faramir survived such outrageous behaviour?

"Only the brave can walk the long, weary road you have chosen, Faramir," he said grimly, his lips tight as he fought back his chagrin. "The rest of us lack the courage and the resilience. Though you knew I waited to comfort you, you never sought to ease your journey or take ought for yourself."

"You must not blame my father," Faramir said as he noted the King's expression. "He did what he deemed as right. He saw my weakness and he did what he could to overcome it."

Aragorn took in a long breath. He tried to make his tone gentle as he said, "Even after all these years, my sweet one, you do not understand. What Denethor saw in you was no weakness. I anger that you had to live through such torment and I am humbled by all you have achieved since. It frustrates me to think of how high you could have flown had your wings not been clipped at such a young age."

Faramir's eyes were intense. "It is you who does not understand my King," his voice was soft but with an unmistakeable edge. "I achieved what I did only because I suffered. He gave strength to my wings, he lit the fire in my belly, he planted the need to strive in my heart and he set the courage to endure in my soul. The Lord Denethor created the man I have become and he did it for the same reason I have done all I have. . . for Gondor."

Aragorn smiled sadly, remembering Gandalf's words from long ago. "Your mistress to whom you have remained ever faithful?" He asked as a deeply held guilt flickered in him. For though he was loyal to his Kingdom and his people, Aragorn had never felt the need to stifle and suppress his own personal passions in the way he knew his Steward had.

Faramir's face brightened into a weak grin. He lifted his head slightly as the last flames of intensity in his eyes died. "Yes," he replied softly. "I suppose she is my mistress for no one has touched the place in my heart that I keep for her. I cannot speak false and say I have never wished it to be different. I have. Many times have I prayed to have what other men take as a birthright; love and companionship, happiness and hope but I was not born for such. So I have striven to do what I could for my people and in their success have I found my own contentment. I do believe my father would be proud. It is sufficient."

Aragorn shook his head. "We are all proud of you, Faramir," he said. "It would have been so easy for you to turn to bitterness and despair but to channel your energy into such selfless endeavour so successfully shows the worth of you."

"My own walls are fallen now but she will endure, Aragorn," Faramir's voice was only a whisper. His head slumped slowly down and his eyes were dulled, losing focus as he seemed to fade – his duty done. "That has ever been what is of import. Gondor prospers . . ."

Aragorn leaned in close to hear the words and took his Steward's shivering body to his chest in the close embrace he had long desired. "She does, Faramir," he responded, "And she ever will."

Faramir nodded. "It is sufficient," he whispered once more. "What does my King command?"

"You are the finest servant she ever had, Faramir," Aragorn said. "The walls you built for her never will be breached by another living soul. But she was always an exacting mistress and she wearies you now, give her up. You have freely given and she has taken all you had; let me take her from you, brave warrior. Though it breaks my heart, my Steward, I discharge you from your duty and bid you rest now. Rest and be at peace; no other deserves it as you do."

The King was unsure if Faramir had heard for his eyes closed and he appeared to have fallen asleep, his head resting on Aragorn's shoulder once more as the words were spoken. Aragorn closed his eyes, ran his hand through Faramir's hair and breathed in the scent of sweet honey.

At such a moment Aragorn was completely unprepared for the visions that lurched into his head, as dazzling in their force as the first one had been all those years before. This revelation differed from its predecessor, however, in that instead of being one vivid scene, Aragorn found himself seeing a whole series of events from the past eighty years.

He saw Faramir standing at his side supportively as the High Council of Gondor welcomed their new King for the very first time, an event which had taken place shortly after the coronation. The Council Chamber faded to the intimate surroundings of the Steward's study. Faramir's face pale and worried was before him as they waited together as Eowyn laboured in a close-by chamber to bring their firstborn into the world. Aragorn saw his Steward's face change, pride shining in his eyes, as they received the news that Elboron was born. And he saw Faramir cradling the baby in his arms as he stood on the high walls showing his son the beauty of Minas Tirith before them. The vision lurched once more, this time Aragorn saw his Steward at the gates to the newly re-built city of Osgiliath. Faramir was smiling broadly, his eyes alight with excitement and success. Those same eyes were then shrouded in pain as the scene changed, Faramir stiffened in shock and Aragorn remembered this moment well. His Steward had thrown himself in front of the exposed King to shield him from the assassin's arrow as it flew through the air. The traitorous black shaft protruded from Faramir's shoulder as he fell to the ground at Aragorn's feet. Before Aragorn could react the scene shifted again to the beautiful new university buildings that Faramir had been instrumental in commissioning in Minas Ithil.

The speed of the scenes was increasing and Aragorn felt a dizzy sensation as he was bombarded by the memories of a life; for these were not scenes of what may be in the way the first vision had been. No, these were actual life events that he and Faramir had experienced together. With that realisation, as if the point had been made, memory shifted to a dreamlike sequence.

Aragorn saw masses of prosperous people stretching out before him. He saw daughters and a son, all smiling with love for their father. He saw the Lords of Gondor and their Ladies in the White City that buzzed with commerce and scholarship. The Lords smiled as they received delegations from the East or South, while still more ships bringing unimagined riches docked in Belfalas harbour. He saw ranks of soldiers, those in the forefront were of the White Company and the Rangers of Ithilien but in the distance were men from other companies and indeed from the armies of Gondor's allies. All stood, willing to fight with bows strung and blades bright but their countenances were marked by an irresistible peacefulness. And beyond Aragorn beheld lines of common people; men, women and childrenpicking fruits in the orchards of Ithilien and labouring in the fertile plains of the Pelennor. Every face was marked by the same expression of security and happiness. Every one was gazing with respect and honest love for the Steward of Gondor.

Aragorn sighed softly at the wonder of it, as he did so the vision before him shattered like glass. He was back in the darkened room. He leaned forward to gaze on Faramir's face and he knew by the enigmatic smile that played across the well loved features that his Steward had shared the vision with him once more.

Aragorn understood the message; the price Faramir had paid although high had been worthwhile. He felt light and unburdened as if suddenly free from a long held misconception. The realisation brought him no happiness, however, as he perceived what must happen now he finally understood the choice Faramir had made. This night could end in only one way. Accepting the inevitable, as he knew his dignified Steward had already done; the King leaned back into the pillow and gently rested his own head on Faramir's.

As Aragorn sat with Faramir in his arms, the smile remained on the Steward's pale face but it slowly diminished to grey as the night wore on. Aragorn gently stroked his hair and breathed in that same scent that had enticed him so many years before.

At some point during his vigil, though Aragorn knew not when, Faramir of the House of Hurin, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, passed out of the knowledge of this world, departing beyond the veil to be with his illustrious ancestors. The King sat alone and bereft with the body in his arms of the man whom he had loved passionately but purely for over eighty years.

As dawn streaked across the night sky outside, a stifled sob caused Aragorn to lift his head. He saw Elboron and Tobir hugging each other for comfort, standing in the doorway.

"The light has gone out," Elboron whispered sadly as they moved into the room.

"As all lights eventually must, Bron," Aragorn replied, his voice soothingly soft. "But Gondor will bask in the glory of his radiance for generations to come. His duty was done, his story told. He is at peace now and it is well deserved. He would not ask for more."

The two younger men sat beside their King and wept as the enormity of his loss crushed them. . .

. . . but, in the morning, Gondor would call them once more and Aragorn knew they must find the strength to go on. . .

. . . for Faramir.

THE END


	3. Dumb

**Disclaimer: **Not mine, borrowing from Prof etc. . .

**Author's Notes**: Clairon's bash at slash! I lied: Chapter 2 was not the end! Here is another chapter and maybe there will be a final one from Faramir's point of view. What do you reckon?

Thanks for all the reviews and kind words.

Again, adult themes are discussed here and relationships between men. If you don't like the thought of it please do not read. I do not wish to offend.

**Dedication: **For Chibi-kaz who asked for it . . .

**Chapter 3**

**Dumb **

'_**Just as long as I can see the morning,**_

_**And blossoms come to bud again in spring,**_

_**It's enough to keep me still believing,**_

_**Your memory is everything.'**_

**C MacDonald and R MacDonald **

_Minas Ithil_

_YEAR 82 (Fourth Age)_

I have not the words to tell him how I feel. I cannot begin to describe the emotion that thunders through my heart, the cold shattering fear, the certainty that I will lose him so very soon.

But then I have never had the words.

I was still young when I realised that I was different, that although I may think them and wish them, words would never come from my mouth. I knew very quickly that because I could not speak people would think me dumb. Such suppositions come easily to the child who is constantly called 'stupid' and beaten for his silence. Even those who did not react with ridicule and violence looked at me with eyes that revealed my inferiority – I was less than them, my needs were unimportant, my pain not so hurtful because I could not express it. Yes, I learnt very quickly the way things would be and so I swore to myself that I would never mourn the lack of a voice. I would take the loss and make it a powerful thing, a thing that made me strong, made me better than them, in no physical way for I was always a pitiful, stray urchin but in some other less defined but higher and more mystical sense. And, in truth, I never have allowed the bitterness that lurks at the very edge of my consciousness to move in . . . until now.

Now, I would do anything to find a voice. I need so much to be able to tell him how he makes me feel, the worth and light that he has brought to my life. Before I met him I was nothing; he has given me all I am. I need to thank him and I cannot. Instead I must rely on the message I give through my eyes. For as long as I have known him he has been able to read my eyes and from them see what truly dwells beneath in my heart. He has understood me completely with no need for words. It is a gift they do say; the Prince of Ithilien reads men's hearts.

But does he see me now? Will he read me as he is numbed from pain, clinging barely to life, anticipating an end, waiting only for the one who can release him? Why should I expect him to have the time to read a mute boy's eyes? I fear he will die not knowing what he means to me.

And so I would speak but alas, I cannot; I do not have the words.

Instead I sit and hold his lifeless hand. Gently I stroke his fevered brow. He moans softly, his eyes tightly shut, he sees nothing and my frustration and fear grow. For, when the King comes I will lose him completely. It has ever been so, though he has tried to fight it, I have learnt; place him in a room with King Elessar and the rest of us become only grey ghosts and shadows, colourless moons, orbiting uselessly around the source of all light, all life for the Steward; his King. I understand such need for it mirrors my own.

Fearing the moment when I shall lose everything with all my being, I find myself retreating to the comfort of memory. The touch of his long fingers on my body, his soft lilting voice and the low groan from deep in his soul that he releases at the point of rapture always. Such intimacies are ours and ours alone, he has told me he has shared such love with no other and I believe him, for my Lord is a man of honour and he speaks no untruths. But such memories will soon be all I have left. I cannot live without him, I know this. His loss will crush so many but all others have friends and lovers to lean on for support. I alone have nothing else; he is my world. I would tell him so.

And so I would speak, but alas, I cannot; I do not have the words.

Suddenly his eyes open and he impales me on the steely blue of their beauty.

"Tobir," he whispers, his voice hoarse and weak but his face smiles with radiance and I am carried back to the moment when I first saw him . . .

_Minas Ithil_

_YEAR 72 (Fourth Age)_

I had stolen the apple, I could not deny it but I was hungry and one worm-ridden apple surely did not equate to the beating that the grocer was giving me! I quivered in the wet gutter trying to make myself even smaller than my normal pitiful form, my arms above my head, pathetically trying to protect it from further damage. The pain was aching through me, as the grocer screamed and raised the stick once more.

I blocked the whole experience out as best I could. It was not the first beating I had endured, and if I survived it, it would surely not be the last. I was a beggar, an orphan, worse than that when I was caught stealing, as I inevitably was, I could not even apologise. My silence was taken as conceited arrogance which further enraged my aggressor and so my punishment was doubly painful. The fact that I was but ten years old, or close to it – as I had never met my mother I was unsure of the date of my birth – vastly undernourished, dressed in rags, teeming with fleas and all alone in the world, rarely brought with it enough sympathy to spare me.

I say rarely for there had been occasions when I had been treated with kindness. When I was very young I had lived with a distant relative of my mother's. But when she wed her new husband did not want to share his hut with an 'imbecile'. He talked of wringing my neck like an unwanted kitten, I ran before he got the chance.

For the two winters previous to this event I had worked for an elderly blacksmith in Osgiliath. I had done odd jobs for him and in return received food and lodgings but then the old man had taken a chill during the last frost of the winter and died quickly. His son and family of six mewling brats had returning from the White City to take over the business. He had enough mouths to feed and I had known he could not support me as well. He had to let me go. What he did not have to do, was give me food and a blanket for my journey but he did. He had also pointed me in the direction of the new city; Minas Ithil. And so, with his tales of gold and mithril for all making my feet move faster, I had set off to find my fortune.

It was not to be. For though the newly rebuilt city was indeed beautiful, buzzing with life and joy, it was only so for those who had the wealth to prosper and benefit from the commerce that took place in its intricately designed halls. For me it was just another place to be hungry and cold, to steal and to be punished for my crimes. From the gutter one city looks very much like another.

Such thoughts did not enter my head then. Why should they? I was uneducated and hopeless. It was very likely I should die in a blooded heap in a gutter such as the one I now writhed in never having had the chance to think any more enlightened thoughts than where my next meal was coming from. Indeed my future was not bright, and as the grocer continued the beating it was becoming more of a possibility that it would be this gutter, with its rotting vegetables and rubbish, where I would actually meet my doom. Such a fate would certainly pass unmarked and unmourned.

The pain was now so numbing that I could no longer function. The darkness was creeping into the corners of my mind and I could not fight it. So far gone was I that I did not hear the raised voices. One belonged to the grocer and spat his vengeful anger, the other was calmer and more controlled, seeking to reason. It took long moments before I realised that the blows no longer fell. I did not know when they had stopped, but I opened my eyes slightly just to prove that it was so.

A small group of citizens had gathered to watch the scene and I saw them now. Gaping at me with wide uncaring eyes and muttering. I shifted my position a little but the pain was too intense so I simply lay still. Loud angry voices continued to dance at the edge of my consciousness but I could not ascertain what words were spoken. The beating had stopped, in my strange, numb world that was all that mattered. I would sleep here until the pain had gone too.

Hands suddenly touched me. I braced myself for the pain and it did come but the hands, though firm, were gentle, softly they held me and I felt myself being lifted. I feared to open my eyes for I knew however soft the arms that held me they would eventually disengage and toss me aside, as all hands did. If I kept my eyes shut I would retain the intimate physical contact for a little longer. And the warmth of such a touch after a lifetime of aggression and pain was wondrous to me and so compulsive I wished it to continue for just one second more.

However, the strong arms did not disengage. Rather I was jostled and moved but always with as little hurt as possible. I grimaced at the pain but admitted to myself that the overall experience was a pleasurable one. I went upwards again and then we appeared to settle. There was a smell of horses and leather and something warm was wrapped about my shoulders.

A man's voice spoke then but not to me. "Father," he said in a tone of mild rebuke. "You cannot take home every waif and stray from the City. Even you must see that!"

A voice nearer replied strong but unassuming and I could tell it belonged to the man who held me. "It is my City, Bron," he said with determined softness. "Therefore every waif and stray is my responsibility. I will not have them beaten to death on my streets and do nothing. I thought we had come far, but obviously not far enough if such brutality still exists over an apple. It will not hold sway, not while I am in authority here. I will not have it!"

The first voice chuckled. "Then may I suggest you start by building a public bath house; this latest one stinks!"

They was a snort from the other man and then the sensation of movement. I could hear the soft jangle of the bridle. A wave of fear washed through me, for I had been a street urchin long enough to hear the stories of noblemen taking my peers and subjecting them to all manner of devilry. Still the apprehension was not strong for there was something in this man's voice that spoke of compassion and gentleness and what lingering doubt I felt was soon overcome by curiosity to see the features of my mysterious benefactor.

I shifted my position to rest my head against his expensively clothed chest, biting back the pain the movement caused, I opened my eyes. As I did so the man above me glanced down. Our eyes met and streetwise as I was I did not comprehend the danger I was in. Already it was too late, for at that moment I drowned irretrievably and forever in the overpowering pool of compassion deep in those azure eyes.

_Minas Ithil_

_YEAR 82 (Fourth Age)_

It was in his eyes you see. Those blue orbs that promised bottomless, unquenchable passion but also tempered with a cold iron sadness. Eyes that could at once inspire you with the heat of their emotion but could also freeze all they fell upon with the coldness of their control.

As they look at me now I can see the beauty is veiled in dull pain.

"Tobir," he repeats. "Do not look so sad."

How can I not look sad? I clasp more tightly hold of his pale hand before me feeling my own control faltering. His once powerful body lies broken beyond repair, his time is short and yet he speaks to reassure me. I feel my lower lip begin to tremble as tears wash into my eyes. Unable to stifle it, I throw myself into his chest as I have always done, knowing it as a place of safety. But not now for my Lord has not the strength to move his arms to envelope me from the brutal world outside as he has in the past. Instead he tries to placate me with his words, soothing and gentle but as my tears rage through me and my body shivers I hear them not. Eventually as my sobs subside I hear what he says, his courageous words of hope for me when all he has is despair. He is so brace and selfless to one such as I who was never worth the care he gave me.

And so I would speak but alas, I cannot; I do not have the words.

I pull back from him then but only as far as the stool at the side of his bed. The room we share feels suddenly cold and caverness. We are alone, the healers have long since been banished to treat others who will benefit from their care. And Lord Elboron has received word of the King's imminent arrival, so he has gone to welcome him.

"We knew this day would come, Tobir," he says softly.

He speaks the name he gave me, for before I met him I had nothing, not even a name. I remember the day he gave it to me. A twinkle shone in his eye as he said I minded him of a young boy from his youth, apprentice to the tiler who was renovating a roof in the Citadel one summer. The boy must have made an impression of my Lord for him to remember him so many years later. My Lord went on to confess that the youth had possessed the same grey eyes that I had and something within their mysterious depths had entrapped him. He never acted on his infatuation, the boy became one of a long list of men that my Lord had felt an initial attraction to but had not dared to pursue. But I reminded him of the youth from a long ago hot and sweltering summer and so I became Tobir. I could not complain, it was as good a name as any.

I nod but do not look into his eyes for I know the courageous resolve I shall see there will set my tears flowing once more.

"You have brought joy to a lonely old man," he says. And my thoughts go back to the times we have shared; his infectious chuckle on the day he declared that he was exactly one hundred years older than me. I had smiled at his delight at such a fact although I still do not fully understand why it caused him such mirth.

And there were other days. The long patient hours he spent trying to tutor me with bow and sword when it was patently obvious to all that though I was quick, I would never have the strength or stamina to be a soldier. We did laugh at my pathetic attempts as it became obvious I could not learn what he could teach

Finally, as he had stopped trying and accepted the fact, he chuckled once more. As he left the practice floor I heard him mutter, "It will make a change to share a bed with someone who cannot wield a weapon better than I!"

My heart had soared at his words for at that time, though I desperately wanted to physically express my love for him, we had never touched in such a way. It was as if he had first explored all possibilities to shield me from his own desire, for as well as trying to make me into a soldier, he had also tried to teach me to read and write but my lack of a voice had made the whole process impossible.

When he realised he could give me none of these gifts my Lord finally bowed to the inevitable; he allowed me to fulfil the role I believe I was born for. At first he was simply my lover, and a tender more respectful partner I could never hope to meet. Later when I also became his confessor, it became evident that his restraint had been truly awesome. He had spent his whole life never allowing himself the release of true pleasure. I still do not understand how he achieved such restraint that first time he took me, when the repression of years of control must have threatened to overwhelm him. But it did not and I was thankful.

While I never mastered the art of reading, he believed I loved the stories he told me. If I am honest I loved being close to him, nestling my head in his broad chest and smelling his honey scent as the fire burned brightly in the hearth. I cared not what story he read, it was just the sharing that was important to me. It did not matter whether he read from a beautiful elven tome or a list of supplies needed for the White Company. He coveted me at such moments and I felt I was the only one to share his world; that was enough.

On one winter's night when the blizzard blew through the City and none wished to leave their firesides he became strangely morose. His eyes were bright but brittle in the firelight. I was afeared for I had never seen him so affected. It was that night, for what reason I know not, that he began to tell me the story of his life. He told me of his childhood in the lonely, chill Citadel. His youth as a soldier and a leader of men throughout the Ring War. His marriage and the joy and heartbreak that it brought him. But most of all he spoke of his duty. He spoke of it as if it were a living thing – something he must conciliate at all costs. It scared me the depth of his passion for he was an intensely private person who held himself remote from his own grief. Even he, in the end, found the need to tell his story was too strong to repress. I am ever honoured that he chose me to hear his confession but I am not fool enough to think that he chose me for any other reason than he knew his story was safe with me. I praised the fact that I had no words of my own, it was as I had decided years before, a gift, for though he would have saved me and protected me as he did if I had had a voice, he may even have take me as his lover, I know that he would never have trusted me with the intimacy of his life. And what a treasure it was; a proud, brutal and haunting story that will remain with me forever. I wanted to thank him for his trust and his love.

And so I would speak but alas, I cannot; I do not have the words.

I look at him again and he smiles weakly. "I love you like no other," he rasps.

I meet his eyes now finding new strength from the memories we have shared. He opens his mouth to speak but there is noise drifting through the hallway; a commotion outside.

I feel him relax a little. He closes his eyes and lets out a sigh. I feel my panic raise. The noise can only mean one thing; the King is here and I have lost him. I grip his hand still more tightly.

My Lord's eyes open once more. He looks deep into me and for a moment I feel completely open before him. He shakes his head slowly. "You have not lost me," He says softly. "Nor will you ever, for I will always be in your heart. I know what I mean to you, Tobir, I see it in your eyes. I have not told you before but believe me whatever you feel for me I feel just as intensely for you. You saved me from myself and for that I will ever be as grateful as you are to me for the life I have given you. We do not need words to understand this."

He stops. There are boot steps clicking on the stone stairs far away but they come nearer with every moment.

My Lord blinks. "I will die in his arms, Tobir." I cannot subdue the selfish sob that escapes me. "For that is my duty," he continues bravely. "But it does not mean I love you less. Be strong and when I am gone look for me in my City for I will be all around you. And you will feel me." His voice becomes suddenly urgent. "Now kiss me for one last time!"

I lean toward him, uncertain at first but as I draw closer I sense his wanting. I gather him up in my arms, my mouth clasping his and I enter him one last time with my tongue, cramming all my passion, all my emotion, into him. He crumples before me on the bed and then his tongue engages mine and we kiss properly, each searching for the power to make this moment stretch out to infinity, each knowing it will not.

The boot steps stop outside the door. I hear hushed voices – Lord Elboron and the King. Still my Lord's tongue ravishes mine and just as I begin to believe this kiss will last forever, he pulls back and I am empty.

As the King enters the room I am back on my stool, holding my Lord's hand demurely. The King Elessar is still a most impressive figure and as I turn to regard him, I wonder how one such as I could ever hope to compete with him for the Steward's affection. For, though I share the King's grey eyes and black hair (a relic my distant cousin did tell me when I was very young from the blood of the Dunedain who was my father, long dead even then) I have nothing else to compare with his regal beauty. But I have shared more than he ever will; the last kiss still warms my lips and my heart.

As the King moves forward to me, his nose twitching with the scent of athelas in the room, he speaks, "Peace, Tobir," he murmurs resting a comforting hand on my shoulders. "I would speak with my Steward," he continues.

I wish I had the voice to respond. I wish I could tell this King of the love I bear my beautiful Lord. Of the man who lies before us and the passion of his soul. Of the life he has given me and the happiness he has created. I wish I could tell everyone, I would sing it from the top of the highest tower in this fair city so that all would hear.

And so I would speak but alas, I cannot; I do not have the words.

A long sigh comes from the bed. We both turn to see cobalt blue eyes regarding us unflinchingly.

"You came," Lord Faramir breathes, his voice hoarse and weak.

Aragorn smiles. "Of course," he says as he moves forwards. "I promised you a long time ago that I would."

I hesitate a moment still not wanting to comprehend what surrendering my place at my Lord's bed side actually means. But as I glance back I see that already his eyes have left me. The coldness at such a loss makes me shiver.

From the doorway Lord Elboron, who once despised me for my relationship with his father, but now understands I am just a lonely poor boy, says, "Come Tobir, you need to eat a little. Give the old boys time to speak."

The Steward's son places an arm around my shoulders as I grudgingly retreat to the door. This is how it will be from now, my Lord has given me over to the care of his son. The door closes with a gentle click and my last sight of my Lord is as his King leans towards him, their eyes locked together.

I do not eat any of the food that is proffered my way. Instead I sit motionless, thoughtless and soulless. He would not want this I know but I can contemplate naught else.

At dawn Lord Elboron comes to me. Gently he envelopes me in his firm embrace and together we slowly walk the hall to my Lord's chamber. A stifled sob escapes Lord Elboron as we stand in the doorway. The King lifts his head. Cradled in his arms is the lifeless body of my Lord.

"The light has gone out," Lord Elboron whispers sadly as we move into the room.

"As all lights eventually must, Bron," the King replies, his voice soothingly soft. "But Gondor will bask in the glory of his radiance for generations to come. His duty was done, his story told. He is at peace now and it is well deserved. He would not ask for more."

We sit beside the King and weep as the enormity of his loss crushes us . . .

Later that day, finding no solace in the rooms that I shared with my Lord, I walk out into the City. My eyes are reddened and I sniff constantly but at least the tears have stopped for a while. I walk aimlessly, shocked that outside the confines of the Steward's house the weak, winter sun shines and the cold wind still blows; life goes on.

I find my feet have led me to the gates of Minas Ithil's orphanage building. I stop amazed that I should find myself in this place on this of all days. The standard of its patron, the Steward, flies above the building at half mast and draped in black. Borne on the same breeze that makes it flutter are the voices of the children inside. They sing a bitter-sweet requiem to the man whose vision and kindness has changed their lives so greatly, no longer forced to scrape an existence on the brutal streets they are fed and educated to make something of their lives. They, like me, are indebted to the Lord Faramir.

Tears spring once more to my eyes as I understand the force that has moved me to this spot. He told me to look for him in his City and I have found him. Blinking back the tears I look around me and I see him, not only in the orphanage, but also in the library across the street, in the market place down the road and in the courts of justice higher up, in the beautiful university and in the public bath house as well as the noisy barracks of the White Company. I see him all over this beautiful City that he has created for his people. And not only in Minas Tirith, his work changed the face of the whole of Gondor. I am humbled before his achievements and yet I understand why he has brought me here to this place. I understand the message he has given me; it needed no words to dilute its power because sometimes words are not important. I know he loved his people but now I see he loved not one of them as he chose to love me.

I am different.

I am special.

I do not have the words; I never did. It matters not; for even without words I am truly blessed.


End file.
